


what's a god to a prophet

by d__T



Category: Blood Drive (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blasphemy, Bloodplay, Bondage, Julian POV, Knives, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Tentacle Sex, everyone learns something about each other, mentions of oviposition as a joke, negotiation, one accidental elder god, things don't go nearly as badly as they should for reasons not apparent to the reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: Julian discovers that Rasher is, or was, an ordained priest in the cult he was raised in. Julian immediately requests blasphemy and sacrilegious activities. Rasher obligingly puts a scene together.But you really shouldn't mess with elder gods, huh.
Relationships: Rasher/Julian Slink
Kudos: 4





	what's a god to a prophet

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know: when Julian dies, he reincarnates with a new, identical, live body. He does this regularly and it is not a surprising thing. He's also super buff, like why did they make the carnival trickster god archetype so fucking ripped.

Julian picks his self out very carefully. He is a god entering into the space of another god or gods of which he knows very little about. Rasher has told him nearly nothing and researching the name of the cult had hardly given him more. It had been founded before his death and engaged in tax fraud and being fucking weird. Nothing about ritual, very very little about the theology and aesthetics. The one picture of the chapel looks like any other small town chapel; nothing unusual, not even on the sign out front.

Precious little to work with, so he dresses to his own power. Which means starting with a shower so that his makeup will stay in place, at the very least. Then layers: bulldog harness and lace trimmed underwear. Black pants but of course these have the silver weave in them. Red shirt, grey vest, both covering the lines of the harness underneath. Collar studs, necklace of silver clasped skeletal hands, two finger ring and a clawed ring, a stone in his ear. Makeup: deepening his eyes and bruising his lips and sharpening his cheekbones. Checks his holster bag and decides this won’t be a combat situation so he trades some tools for a toy and a harness before dipping his fingers in the black. Wait a minute for that to dry so he doesn’t leave fingerprints on his jacket, hat, cane.

Time to go.

The chapel stands in a ghost town. It’s not the original one, of course, that one is still in what’s left of Indiana, a tool still in use. This one was a simple white washed clapboard thing; now it is sandblasted down to the tougher veins of the wood on the windward side like every other building in this town. The effect is so dramatic that there is a gradient from the stark weathered silver of the wood to the old white paint across one side of it, each eddy of the wind visible in the scars. His claw ring rasps on the wood as he pushes the door open.

It’s dark inside. The wood is stained dark and the windows are frosted opaque from the windborne sand. There are drifts of sand across the floors and in corners. He steps through into the nave of the chapel.

The dark wood continues. This place was never large but it is achingly hollow with all of the pews upended and herded to lean against the back wall. The floor is open, empty, worn with pale tracks by years of feet. There’s a stiff wooden chair at the center front, right where the worn pale path in the center ends. Rasher is sitting on the sanctuary steps above and to the side; he’s folded in on himself, small and angular and looking up at him.

Julian is used to seeing Rasher bare to the shoulders, even to the hips, but the plain light neutral color of the vestment tunic is disconcerting. Even the length of it is disconcerting although the way it flows down between his legs is nice. It’s throwing the scrawl of his tattoos across his face and arms into stark contrast, the difference between who Rasher could have been and who Rasher is now is violently apparent.

Julian approaches the front using measured steps that make his bootheels clicks on the wooden floor. Rasher watches him like a predator watches a potential prey animal, but it doesn’t diminish Julian.

“Kneel.” Rasher commands.

Julian goes to his knees beside the chair. Rasher gives him no further instruction, so he looks around for a little bit more with his hands resting on his thighs. Then he dips his head and closes his eyes.

He knows how to genuflect, but that was 70 contiguous years ago and to another god. Rasher swears to Typhon, and Harthag Ronis, and others in a tongue that Julian feels like he should know but doesn’t. So he thinks instead of sliding his hand up the inside of Rasher’s legs, over the slick texture of the blue leggings and under the fall of the tunic, and of Rasher opening his legs for him to do that.

They’re here to commit sacrilege; he may as well get started.

“You may rise.” Rasher commands. “Leave your cane on the floor. Take off your jacket and hat.”

He does as commanded, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair.

“Sit.”

He does, body automatically a straight backed posture that he hasn’t used in 70 years. The ritual so far has been shaped the same as what he knows, although he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be thinking. It’s hard to blaspheme without that.

At long last, Rasher rises. Julian can kind of see what they were going for with the long tunics. It’s making Rasher look even longer than he already does, making his shoulders stick out even more awkwardly. He can also see the the points of his hips pressing against the fabric, his ruined body providing no curve to relieve his angles.

“All the other priests are… occupied.” Rasher says in his customer service voice. Julian can’t tell if under normal circumstances if this would mean “having an orgy in the back room that they didn’t invite me to” or “they’re dead and I killed them”. “So you have me. I’m afraid that’s the best we could do on such short notice.”

Julian nods. He doesn’t know what’s happening and it’s exhilarating.

Rasher starts speaking- this is clearly a sermon- but it’s in the language that Julian doesn’t understand. He’d thought for a while that Rasher swore in a dialect of Latin that he just didn’t know, but this has a lyrical quality to it that tickles his brain like he  _should_ know it, like he knows it but it’s locked away in a dream he had once.

Rasher clearly spoke this language fluently, even after the 15, 20 years since he left the cult. He wonders if this is Rasher’s first language; when and how had he learned English and gotten that sharp tongue of his? But it changes the timbre of his voice so much and there’s no trace of it in his normal voice. Maybe it’s a priest thing.

Rasher commands him to come up onto the dais and kneel before the alter. He gets the feeling that the space isn’t shaped right- Rasher’s motions are scaled for a place with a much lower alter.

He brings his cane, as he’s told, and kneels as he’s told, placing the cane parallel between him and the alter.

Rasher looks down on him, and Julian looks up, trying to figure out how Rasher is feeling but he’s getting nothing.

Rasher pulls a small coil of rope from the back of his tunic where it had been hidden. He separates it into two, then orders Julian to kneel up so that he can pass the ropes behind his knees.

Rasher binds the cane to the tops of his knees, using it like a spreader bar. The rope bites into the leather wrapping and won’t slide and Julian can’t believe that Rasher has been keeping this innovation to himself. The position is a little too wide for him; it’s stressing his thighs and the big tendons inside his legs and Rasher knows it because he’d groped Julian a little bit.

Rasher unbuttons his vest and shirt, pushing them back to trap his arms and push his chest out a little. It’s his favorite casual bind.

“Is this a normal ritual?” Julian asks.

“It’s in the books.” Rasher says enigmatically as he caresses Julian’s chest, running his fingers along the straps of the harness. “It just hasn’t been performed this way in my lifetime.”

“Do the other priests know you’re doing this?” Julian just manages to keep his voice even under Rasher’s touching.

“What they don’t know can’t hurt them.” Rasher pinches one of his nipples, making him shiver.

“Sexy,” he comments, “but we’ll have to fatten you up. You’re no good for the conquest like this.”

Julian pouts, covering his shock. Other than his dick, nobody has ever negatively critiqued his body in any way that matters. He is an  _archetype_ , his artificiality an impossible goal! 

Rasher slides his thumb into his mouth and Julian licks at it. Skin-salt and the memory of sand dust and the rope, and Rasher’s fingers curling under his jaw.

There’s a hundred cruel voices inside him when Rasher speaks; Julian can feel the ghosts of all the lashes. “Don’t you want to be good?”

Julian nods into his hand, feeling far more desperate than he really ought to.

“Good.” Rasher pats his cheek before standing up and away. “You didn’t really have a choice.”

Rasher gestures at him. “Up.”

He can’t. He wants to but he can’t; his legs and his arms are trapped. He could, given enough struggle, force himself to his feet anyway.

Rasher unties the belt from his vestment, dropping it so that he can bundle up the front of it. Julian is feeling that the dark blue compression leggings with the white stitching that is emphasizing just how hard Rasher’s dick is aren’t exactly standard issue. He wants to stick his face right there.

Rasher’s tentacles come out of him like he’s yawning before they come in around his face and neck. He licks at one until it curls into his mouth for him to suck at. Rasher squats down to his level and sticks his arms out. Julian leans forward into the embrace but the first thing Rasher does is push his shirt and vest the rest of the way off. Then Rasher grabs him and there’s a moment of fear as the tentacles tighten around him, including the one around his neck and then Rasher has hoisted him onto the alter. He goes down onto his back with his knees up and apart.

Rasher climbs up onto the alter with him and sits astride his hips. He says a few soothing things in that strange tongue before sliding one hand up over Julian’s throat to press his head back. The other pulls a pocketknife from the waistband of the leggings, and that’s one of Rasher’s special ones, certainly  _not_ standard issue with this outfit.

Rasher curls his hand over his throat, thumb and forefinger over his pulse on each side; he’s staring straight up and he can feel the slight pressure in his brain and his heart.

Rasher says another thing that he doesn’t understand before clicking the knife open. Julian struggles a little, not trying too hard but it’s no fun if he’s the willing victim  _all_ the time. Rasher just tightens his grip until his pulse roars in his ears and he relents.

“Now stay still.”

Rasher slides his thumb down a little. Slides the point right into the side of his neck. Not very far but it still gushes when he pulls the knife out.

“Rasher-” He whispers. He hadn’t expected to actually be sacrificed.

“Don’t worry.” Rasher says smoothly, and does the same thing on the other side, just as quick with it as he is with his needles.

He can feel blood running down his neck and pooling under him, he’s panting desperately and it’s sticking to his shoulders and getting in his hair. Humans are so  _hot_ on the inside and it’s so strange to feel it-

Rasher holds him for an interminable while before moving his hand back up and pressing the wounds shut with his fingers.

Rasher says something that he feels like he’s not supposed to be alive to hear. While Rasher is speaking, the blaze of his healing kicks in under Rasher’s hand. That much blood loss, that close to his head. He’s gonna be fucking delirious.

Good thing he doesn’t have to get a penis hard anymore; Rasher would have drained it right out of him. He laughs a little.

Rasher rolls his eyes at him. It’s the first time that Rasher has broken character.

Julian grins.

Rasher leans down and kisses him slowly and languidly. He presses up as best he can, pinned at the hips and throat. After the kiss, Rasher moves his hand and no blood flows from the cuts. Rasher wipes his fingers off across Julian’s face.

“Ow,” Julian offers up weakly when Rasher sits back on him, bones digging in on either side of his dick.

Rasher pulls his vestment off, leaving him in just the leggings and the streaks of Julian’s blood. “Is it true what they say about the other side?”

Rasher has asked this of him in so many different ways over the years. Of all the people who should know better, he’s the one who still believes that Julian is human. And now, in this context, now he wishes he had a different answer, anything other than sliding his hands up Rasher’s thighs and saying, “Babe, I didn’t die. If there’s something on the other side, I’ll never know.”

Rasher groans theatrically, but Julian can tell he’s disappointed. Julian rubs in with his thumbs on either side of Rasher’s dick.

Rasher moans. Then pulls himself together. “Let’s get started.”

“Wasn’t-” Julian is taken aback, confused. They’d just done blood ritual, he’s sure of it. It’s his blood that’s on the alter.

Rasher leans in close over him, “Alter didn’t smell right,” licking over the healed cuts.

Julian automatically tips his head for him, hands rising to Rasher’s sides. “Oh.”

He’s pretty sure that Rasher is lying to him, but it doesn’t matter as Rasher’s tentacles come down around him, holding him better than any harness could. He arches up into them and they curl underneath him, disrupting the sticky feeling of the blood drying and bonding him to the altertop.

Rasher kisses him again, now tasting of blood, before sitting back and reaching between them and opening Julian’s pants. Julian pushes against the hand Rasher has pressed flat to his dick with a quiet moan.

“Fuck, you’re wet.” Rasher mutters before saying something that comes over feeling like a minor blessing.

“What was that, a blessing for a successful copulation?” He quips.

Rasher laughs, “Yeah, I’m gonna lay my lord’s eggs in your body so that you can incubate a bunch of little Typhlings for it and you needed sanctification for that to work.”

That didn’t _feel_ like a sanctification, there’s usually way more ritual involved in that. Waters and oils and all that. “Are you serious?”

“You’ll just have to find out- and I know how you like being stuffed full. You probably won’t care until it’s far too late.”

“Fuck.” Julian presses his head back. Rasher’s right about him but he doesn’t have to _give_ him that. He grins cockily, “Then knock me up.”

Rasher drops character like a rock. “Please do not ever say that again.”

“You started it!”

“And I’ll finish it.” Rasher grins.

There’s tentacles curling over his tits, one over his dick in a fat squiggle, and one curling bluntly at his hole. “Fuck, come on, fuck me.”

Rasher presses into him, they’re groaning together, the  _thing_ with tentacles is that there’s no marking of depth, only pressure and how much he can take and Rasher is now gagging him with another tentacle. He’s squirming in Rasher’s embrace.

The tentacles aren't very good at thrusting, the musculature doesn’t work that way, but they do writhe with him. And Rasher knows how he wriggles around when he’s really feeling it to stay on him now.

“Do you want my cock or- “

He can’t choose. He can’t decide, he wants everything. “Whatever-”

Immediately there’s another tentacle prodding at his rim. Curious, teasing, he’s gonna be stretched to soreness. “Oh, fuck.”

It’s just Rasher’s thumb in his mouth now, he’s sucking at it. Rasher holds him by his jaw through the breach, “Look at me, come on, let me see--.”

It must be one of the bigger core tentacles, the ones that Rasher can throw people with.

“Look at me.” Rasher demands. “I am you arbiter, I am your destroyer-”

And Julian does, moans in his mouth, but there’s something behind Rasher and it kicks fear right through him in a way he hasn’t experienced since his first death.

“Uh, hey-” He’s scrabbling, unable to move himself. “Behind you. Look.”

There’s a searing black rip in reality forming like a broken halo, like wings, like a mouth, like it’s Rasher’s shadow made real.

Rasher twists, pulling him with him, and flinches.

Rasher swears in simple English. “Oh shit fuck _no_.”

He pulls himself free of Julian and it fucking  _hurts_ and not in any of the fun ways, it feels like he’s been roughly stirred inside.

Rasher turns properly and looks up at the mirage even as Julian is trying to scoot away. Rasher points at it like it’s a naughty child. “Go away.”

There’s a short pause where nothing happens but for Julian starting to untie himself, fingers clumsy with haste and misplaced blood. And then Rasher cringes like a huge weight has been placed on him, or someone started a jackhammer.

“Rasher, what’s going on?” There’s something he’s missing here.

Rasher ignores him, instead speaking up at the gash. “Shut up, I didn’t invite you.”

Julian has one leg free now.

“You get what I gave you.” Rasher states firmly.

Rasher is having a conversation with whatever it is that Julian can’t see or hear.

“Yeah, I’ve had lots of practice. Now go away, I’m fucking my man here.”

He’s got his other leg free and a flush at the possessive.

“I live to serve.” Rasher’s sarcasm could cut glass. “Him, not you. You ain’t done shit but make my head hurt.”

Julian has his pants up and belt buckled but he’s staying put on the alter so that he can yank Rasher back if needs be, or go with him if he takes a divine nuke.

“Just what I wanted. Listen, if you want more of whatever you’re getting out of this, fuck off so that I can fuck him. Otherwise I’ll put you back in banishment and make you wait through another 10-50 years of their pathetic homages.”

Rasher says something in the other language, then, “I’m sure that if I don’t remember the real words that I can can annoy you into oblivion in other ways. And you know it.”

Then Rasher sags, all the spitfire gone out of him. Julian pulls them together, bare back to bare chest, holding him. Tentacles curl around his forearms. “Doll, what the fuck just happened?”

“Remember that cult I was raised by? Seems like I managed to put out enough energy to invoke god. Who still thinks that I’m amusing, like a naughty hamster or something.”

“Still.” Julian asks slowly. “This has happened before.”

“Yeah, I’m the second prophet or something, but they were shitty to me so they can eat shit and die. I don’t care.” Rasher is so very bitter.

Julian can’t help but laugh, the whole thing is so absurd and he’s giddy from the adrenaline swings.

“ _What?_ "

“You’re the prophet to a literal god, whom you invoked during role play sex by accident, and you’ve given yourself wholly to me because you just don’t care.”

Rasher shrugs. “As gods go, you’re much more benevolent and… accessible.”

“And I give you head.” Julian continues smugly.

“And you give me head.” Rasher shrugs back against him. “For a tentacle cult they sure do frown on sucking dick and taking it up the ass.”

Julian chokes with laughter. “I assume being the prophet came with some kind of social power and you opted out because you like sucking cock.”

“Pretty much.” Rasher agrees sourly. “They didn’t know that god was talking to me. They would have beaten me for lying.”

“You’re amazing.” He presses kisses to Rasher’s shoulders.

“And you’re a jerk, this isn’t that funny.”

“No, it really is.”

Rasher sighs and rubs at Julian’s legs. “We’re technically still in the middle of the ritual and it can take whatever it wants from us while the link is open. But I don’t want to just _give_ that now. It’s mine. Ours.”

Julian loves his vehemence, and sucks a bite into Rasher’s shoulder. “What’ll close it?”

“An orgasm or a death from either one of us.” Rasher folds in on himself a little. “I just want to leave now.”

“Ah. I could jerk off.” The crash is coming but if he catches it now, he can cut them free.

“Do you want me to-?” Rasher wiggles his fingers.

“Nah, you roughed me up pretty good but if you’re feeling up to it, you _could_ eat me out.” Julian offers slyly. 

“Wow, appeal to a man’s base instinct, why don’t you.”

“I know how you love to serve, and there’s a god right here for you to service.”

Rasher laughs. “Only by choice.”

“C’mere.” Julian turns Rasher’s head and kisses him. He wouldn’t have him any other way than talking back to him all the time and if Typhon and Harthag and  _it_ don’t like it, well, he’s the chosen god anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Rasher is speaking old english but I'm too lazy to translate what he's saying.  
> No elder gods were invoked during the writing of this fic.


End file.
